


All the World is Calm

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Romance, actually idk if I can tag it as romance oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Quest and the reclamation of Erebor, Bilbo travels frequently between the Lonely Mountain and Hobbiton. When his visits abruptly stop, the Company - one King in particular - worry.</p>
<p>When Bilbo arrives years later, with Frodo in tow, he would like for nothing better than to continue his annual visits with his nephew as travelling companion. </p>
<p>Some responsibilities supersede all others, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the World is Calm

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the ever-lovely [suchanadorer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer). I do not own Middle-Earth, or its characters.

Something fundamental has changed within Bilbo.

 

Well. Not to say his love for adventure had not been present when he’d been a tiny Hobbitling. But after he had ‘grown up’ and become a highly respectable Hobbit, such things, such impulses had had to be buried deep. The Meddling of Gandalf and the arrival of the Dwarves at his door had not only awoken his soul, but changed it and moulded it into something new.

 

Bilbo is now too restless to settle down. He likes travelling; he likes the sights and the sounds, the (friendly) people he meets, the knowledge he gains. He likes nature and the way he’s now used to sleeping under the stars. Travelling between Hobbiton and Erebor is the perfect solution – after all, he prefers his adventures without all the Orcs and Wargs and wars. Doing so alone also brings the advantage of choosing his own pace and his own side destinations.

 

He himself describes it as having his heart cleft in two; one part remains in Bag End, and one in the mountain. (What he keeps to himself is that it is with Thorin, rather than Erebor, that part of his heart resides.)

 

Bag End is his home and Bilbo feels that he will always return there. Books and benches can be replaced, but he _belongs_ behind that round green door. It is the only thing that can tug him away from Erebor when he sometimes entertains the notion that he could possibly belong _there_.

 

It becomes routine. Bilbo’s arrival at Erebor signals the last few weeks of autumn, and when he leaves, it’s to the soft sunlight and lush greenness of spring. Years and years and years pass, so much so that the Dwarves of the Company grow tense and worried by the end of every summer – they are aware of the average lifespan of a Hobbit, and they are aware of the dangers of the lengthy road between their home and the Shire.

 

Yet, Bilbo appears at their doorstep without fail – smile on his face, kerchiefs in his pockets and age having barely affected him beyond the colouring of his hair.

 

And then the visits stop. All the news any of them receives is the reply to Thorin’s raven: _I’m fine. Something’s come up, though I’ll try to visit as soon as I can. Give my best to everyone_.

 

This puts the King in a most foul mood – despite all his efforts to remain unaffected. Those who know the cause for this distress wisely keep mum and stay out of Thorin’s way. Those that do not are unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of the King’s temper and, more often than not, a demonstration of his extensive vocabulary.

 

(That is, until Dís meets with him privately and curtly tells him to stop acting like a lovesick fool. After some petulant denial and several rows, he eventually bows to her wishes and subsides somewhat.)

 

No matter how hard anyone tries, though, no one can make the King smile again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes two years. Two years for a pony, bearing a Halfling (and another Halfling, but that will be addressed soon), to wind up the road between Dale and Erebor.

 

When a runner arrives to inform the King and his Heirs of the news, Fíli has to touch Thorin’s shoulder to make sure he doesn’t completely pulverise the food in his hand. It takes a few moments for Thorin to actually relax; he’s not had to deal with such a surge of happiness in a long while. After their lunch is over, the three of them stand vigil at the gates. When Bilbo comes into view, with a wee Hobbitling seated in front of him, Fíli and Kíli exchange worried glances before turning to their Uncle.

 

Thanks to their mother (and from some deduction on their part), they are well aware of their uncle’s feelings towards Bilbo. But now they look at the Hobbitling and the way Bilbo treats him and cannot help but wonder if Bilbo does not return these feelings. They cannot help but wonder if this Hobbitling is his son.

 

Thorin has no outward reaction beyond a subtle smile, on the inside nearly bursting with joy. He has eyes for nothing but his burglar, finding that he has to physically stop himself from rushing forward and snatching the Hobbit off his pony and into his arms.

 

Bilbo’s hair is now completely white and more than a few lines grace his face. He has lost none of his spryness, though, jumping down from his pony and balancing his fellow passenger on his hip. Lacking a free arm for proper hugs, they stick to more traditional forearm clasps, and Thorin’s smile grows.

 

Bilbo hesitates upon seeing it. He has not seen that smile in too long, even if it has haunted his thoughts in the small hours of the morning. (He wonders if Thorin has ever thought about him in the two years they have been apart.)

 

“Who is this little one?” Thorin asks, gently – or as gently as he can manage. It has been a long while since he has had to deal with a child, after all – and, according to his sister, he had never been wholly comfortable doing so.

 

The little one in question shyly buries his curly head in Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo chuckles.

 

“This is Frodo, son of Drogo. He’s my cousin, and is now in my care.” He smiles a little sadly and Thorin nods, understanding. There is no war in the Shire, but loss can come in many forms.

 

He places a hand on his chest and bows a little. “Welcome, Frodo, son of Drogo. Welcome to Erebor. I am Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain.” Now that he knows Bilbo’s guest is a cousin, rather than a son, Thorin admits to no small amount of relief. (Not to mention shame at being jealous in the first place.)

 

The Hobbitling blinks huge blue eyes at him. “G’afternoon, Mister King,” he says, finally, and Bilbo smiles again.

 

“At least your manners haven’t suffered from the ride here.” He looks up at Thorin apologetically. “If we could wash and rest…?”

 

“Of course.” As he leads them away, unconsciously placing a hand at the small of Bilbo’s back, he asks, “When did you leave the Shire?”

 

Fíli and Kíli, having opted to stay behind and see to Bilbo’s pony and luggage, do not hear their burglar’s response. Instead they look at each other and breathe twin sighs of relief. While they’re happy to see Bilbo, they’re happier that his arrival has relaxed their Uncle for the first time in two years.

 

Though it’s unspoken, it is their fervent wish that Bilbo returns to his usual visiting schedule.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“He doesn’t like it here,” Bilbo says quietly over dinner three days later, as Fíli and Kíli take turns feeding Frodo. He knows that this will be harsh news for Thorin, but he cannot wait with it any longer. He has already indulged himself enough.

 

“What does he dislike?” Thorin asks, trying not to sound personally offended and failing miserably.

 

Ever perceptive, Bilbo lays a hand on his arm. “He is young, and recently orphaned. You cannot begrudge him for having more fears than is normal.”

 

Thorin lowers his eyes in embarrassment, unsure what to say or how to deal with the fears of a child. “I did not mean to –”

 

“I know.” Bilbo pats his arm absently, eyes unseeing. “He wasn’t supposed to stay with me, you know. He was in Brandybuck Hall, but he always managed to run away and end up in Bag End. I’m not – I wasn’t especially close to my cousins, but I thought that it would be safer to keep him with me.”

 

“You are fond of him,” Thorin offers, not quite sure.

 

“Now, yes.” Bilbo watches Frodo giggle at the princes and their antics, and feels a fierce surge of affection for all three of them. “It’s hard not to be. I think he and I are quite alike.”

 

“Except he doesn’t care for the mountain.”

 

“I care for things other than the mountain,” Bilbo says carefully, still not meeting Thorin’s gaze, and the King suddenly feels his chest tighten.

 

He realizes what this could mean, and it worries him. He feels foolish for being jealous of a small child, but he does not want to lose what little time he has with Bilbo. So he acts rashly and then says what is quite possibly the worst thing he can utter under the circumstances:

 

“If I extend the offer to include your cousin… will you stay here, in Erebor?”

 

Thorin expects shock; at the most, a smile and enthusiasm. He doesn’t expect Bilbo to freeze. As Thorin readies an apology, Bilbo tightens his fingers around Thorin’s arm and turns to Frodo to say, with forced calm dripping from his voice, “Frodo, why don’t you and Fíli and Kíli finish the rest of these pies?”

 

The Hobbitling looks up at him, cheeks flushed from laughter. “Where’re you going, Uncle?”

 

“Yeah, where are you off to, Bilbo? The cooks only bring out the mince pies when you visit.” Kíli grins. “Not that we’re complaining, of course.”

 

“I have to speak with Thorin.” Bilbo rises to his feet, shooting the King a glance. “Privately.”

 

His tone brooks no argument, so Thorin does not bother.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You do not understand the extent of Frodo’s fears.”

 

Disregarding the mounting churning in his gut, Thorin orders, “Tell me, then.”

 

“He screams, Thorin. He cannot sleep for fear of nightmares. I’m the one who has to hold him when he shakes and he cries. He’s so young. No Hobbitling should ever have to suffer like he does.”

 

Thorin cannot reply. He cannot even approach Bilbo, who stands alone in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around himself. He cannot do anything, and it makes him feel weak and helpless and frustrated.

 

“He looks into your mountain and all he sees is darkness and shadow.” Bilbo shakes his head. “I’ve tried. The Valar know I’ve tried, but I cannot help him. He likes you well enough; he likes Fíli, and Kíli, and Bofur, and Dwalin. He is terrified of Balin.”

 

He’s sure he’s heard wrongly. “ _Balin_?”

 

The Hobbit’s smile is grim. “I know. I was as shocked as you are now.” He sighs. “Frodo doesn’t enjoy the cold or the stillness of the air. He cannot live in a mountain.”

 

Fingers clenched, Thorin states, “You seem confident of that.”

 

“He needs the sun on his face.” Bilbo tries to be gentle with his words, but he knows these truths will hurt Thorin. The Dwarf is nothing if stubborn and proud, and doubly so when matters concerned his own Kingdom.

 

At the insinuated accusation, Thorin’s mouth twists. “I would not shut him within these walls.”

 

“Do not put words in my mouth, Thorin,” Bilbo says sharply. “This is not about you. It is about Frodo. Try to understand that I have, that I have responsibilities now. Frodo belongs in the Shire… and I belong by his side.” He exhales harshly, already regretting the words, truthful though they are. Frodo is the priority, not – not Bilbo’s selfish wants.

 

And there it is. Willing the dark expression from his face – with great effort – the King nods, once, and asks tightly, “How long have you known? How long since you figured out that he will never live here?”

 

“Rather unrealistically, I was hoping that Frodo would like it here.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “He is too young to be travelling, but I… in my selfishness, I had to come.”

 

Something like hope stirs in Thorin’s heart.

 

“I have paid the price, it seems. Not only will my visit be cut short, but I… do not think I will return. The mountain will not kneel to the whims of my cousin.” Bilbo’s eyes meet his own, and he recognises the pain in their depths.

 

The corner of Thorin’s mouth lifts, even if he does not and cannot find the situation humorous. “No. It will not.”

 

And, to Bilbo’s eternal surprise and horror, it is the Dwarf King that goes to his knees.

 

“It seems I am destined to want for things I cannot have.”

 

“Thorin –”

 

The King takes Bilbo’s hands in his, which stills his tongue quicker than any harsh command ever could. “I am… I am sorry, dear Bilbo. I’m filled with regret that I did not make my feelings known.” Indeed, he feels like a great weight is pressing on his chest and Thorin fears his bones will break because of it.

 

Bilbo’s eyes grow wide and he swallows. The expression on his face is one of hesitant hope, and it’s the most beautiful Thorin has ever seen him. “Your feelings?”

 

“In all my years I thought I’d never have need for declarations of love.” Thorin presses his lips to the back of Bilbo’s right hand, his eyes closing briefly. “Mahal has proved me wrong once again, it seems.”

 

Abruptly, Bilbo’s knees buckle. He manages to catch himself from barrelling into Thorin, looking absolutely stunned and at a loss for words. He is silent for so long that Thorin begins to worry, begins to think that he’s read the signs wrongly – and then Bilbo starts laughing.

 

“I did not think – I’d hoped –” Bilbo stumbles over his words as if he’s in a rush to let them out, fingers gripping Thorin’s larger ones tightly. He laughs again, breathlessly. “It seems we’ve both been fools, Thorin Oakenshield.” He’s deliriously happy, his smile crinkling his eyes, but oh, the years they could have had together –

 

“Perhaps so,” he agrees, bringing Bilbo’s hands to his cheeks. “Now more than ever.”

 

Bilbo’s face falls. “The time we’ve wasted –”

 

“Every hour we have spent together was no waste. _Is_ no waste.” Thorin pulls Bilbo forward by the lapels of his weskit so they can share each other’s breaths, willing him to understand that regrets should be put aside at this moment. “What is important is –”

 

“The time we have now?” Bilbo finishes, smiling.

 

“Just so.” Thorin chuckles warmly. He cannot remember the last time he’s laughed this much – possibly when Bilbo had last visited Erebor. He does not think he will laugh very much when his burglar returns to the Shire – but for now he has Bilbo in his arms, and that is all that matters in the world.

 

As much as Bilbo wants to live in this moment forever, he knows that he cannot. “Perhaps once Frodo is properly grown I can –”

 

“Don’t make promises you cannot keep.” Thorin ghosts his lips over Bilbo’s temple.

 

Bilbo tries again. This is so new, and he is so thankful for it that he does not want to talk of losing it. “I may yet –”

 

“And you may not. It matters not.” Bilbo shivers as Thorin’s large hands smooth down his back. “What matters is that I would ask you for one thing.”

 

“And what is that, my King?”

 

“Kiss me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They stay for a week – the shortest time Bilbo has ever remained in Erebor since its retaking. Bilbo dearly wants to linger, but despite his best efforts, Frodo is sleeping less and less, his homesickness having gotten the best of him. It is with no small amount of sadness that Bilbo announces his intentions to Thorin, and the two spend much of the night together in Bilbo’s rooms, sitting by the fire and talking quietly.

 

Bilbo falls asleep in Thorin’s arms.

 

There is a pronounced sorrow to the farewell party. Everyone present is well aware that it is likely the last.

 

Bilbo does not accept any gifts, only asking with a laugh that they try to visit him for a change. He hugs every member of the Company, and if he lingers in the arms of one in particular, well. The Dwarves are polite enough not to comment on it, just like none comment on the brightness of the Hobbit’s eyes.

 

Fíli and Kíli and Ori are charged with seeing Bilbo and Frodo off to Dale. They are the last to see the two Hobbits. The three of them are subdued when they return, but like the rest of the Company, they disperse with nothing more than quiet farewells.

 

The rest of the Company bar one.

 

No one dares approach the King. His expression is utterly, utterly blank, his eyes shuttered and his fists clenched. His gaze is ever locked towards the East, and it is now that he allows himself to think on Bilbo’s words, and the time they had wasted.

 

Thorin does not move from his vigil atop the walls for many, many hours.

 

 

* * *

 

 

No Hobbit’s bare foot hence graces the floors of Erebor. No Shire-song echoes in its halls and no mince pies are turned out of the ovens, not even when the mountain itself crumbles to dust in the reshaping of the world.

 

But perhaps – perhaps a Dwarf may enter the Shire. Perhaps a Dwarf may wind his way to Bag End (this time not losing his way). Perhaps a Dwarf may knock three times on the round green door and anxiously await its opening.

 

Perhaps there may be delighted laughter, and a love reunited. 

**Author's Note:**

> I realise that Frodo appears too young in this fic - and so he should. I've bumped down his age for my purposes - instead of him coming to live with Bilbo when he's 12, he's done so when he's 3, in this fic. It explains his more extreme reactions (the nightmares, refusing to live in Erebor, etc.) He'll grow out of it, with some nurturing in the Shire, in time for him to go on his own adventures later on.
> 
> Also: the title is taken from the song "So Close", by Jon McLaughlin.


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